


The End Of Regulus Black

by darwinzfinchez



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: POV First Person, Self Loathing, Slavery (House Elves), Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 01:20:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3959068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darwinzfinchez/pseuds/darwinzfinchez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Regulus made his decision to defy the Dark Lord.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End Of Regulus Black

They say that a healthy man, when he thinks about death, thinks of the word “death” and not of death itself. When an innocent man thinks about murder, he thinks of the word “murder” and not of the act of ending someone’s life. The feeling of not-feeling that washes over you as you stand over an empty shell that, moments ago, was a man begging for his life, telling you about his wife, his children. The ringing silence in your mind as it refuses to process what you have done, what you have become. The shock, making you almost jump out of your skin, when someone places a hand on your shoulder to lead you away, because you really believed, for a moment, that the rest of the world had faded away and left you alone with the consequences of your actions. A man who will not return to his family, two children who will never see their father again. A wife who will never know what really happened to her husband. Perhaps he had no wife or children. Perhaps he invented them, in the hope that you would show him mercy. People will do worse things to avoid dying. For instance, they might kill an unarmed man, kneeling before them and begging for his life, because they know that if they do not, someone else will kill the kneeling man and then kill them.

I am not a Death Eater. I have the Dark Mark branded on the inside of my left forearm, I do the work of a Death Eater, I associate almost exclusively with Death Eaters, but I am not one of them. I am revolted by death, horrified by the act of killing, afraid of fighting. But I do it, because with Voldermort, it is a lifetime of servitude or death, and I am afraid of death.

I am not a good man. I know that it is wrong to kill people, to torture people. I should die, rather than Crucio people until they lose the breath to scream, but I choose to live. I choose to torture and kill innocent people rather than die. I do not eat death. I flee from it.

I am not a good man. I know that it is wrong to treat muggles and non-human beings like this, but I keep doing it until one of my own is threatened. I am a Black after all. We value our family above everything, and Kreacher is family. I do not know what they intend to do with him, only that I do not trust them, that I think they will hurt him, and that I will let them take him away anyway. He truste me. I am Master Regulus, I am always to be obeyed, and I have let him down. I did one thing, though. I told him to come back, I ordered him to return to the house. He obeys, and stands on the hearth rug in the kitchen, swaying and staring into the middle distance, unseeing. He tells me what happened, because I order him to, and so he has to. I am outraged. How could Lord Voldemort treat a house elf like this. How could he disrespect the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black like this? I pretend to myself that I do not know, do not understand.

Something ticks away in the back of my mind, though I will not think about it, will not admit to myself that it is there. Voldemort is a notoriously accomplished Legilimens. I am going to die, and soon. A strange realisation to come to at the tender age of eighteen, but here we are. If I flee, attempt to betray Voldemort, I will die. There is no hope of escape. If I throw myself on the mercy of the Ministry of Magic, I will be sentenced to life in Azkaban, a fate worse than death. And Azkaban is full of Voldemort’s followers. If I am not careful (and I am as careful as I can possibly be without being accused of disloyalty) I will die in battle, die for a cause I despise. But there may be another way. A way for me to choose the mode of my own death. One last act of defiance to the Dark Lord.

Kreacher does not know what I intend to do – he has many virtues, and a quick mind is not among them. But he suspects, in some half-formed, unarticulated way. I ask him to describe the locket to me in as much detail as he can, and he stares at me with suspicion as he does so. He sees the replica in my hand as I return from purchasing it, and narrows his eyes. I order him to take me to where The Dark Lord took him, and he, for the first time in my life, asked me to retract my order. I refuse.

He repeats the gesture when I ask him how to get past the stone door. “Please, Master Regulus, please don’t make me go back in there!” My heart breaks, and I make him go back inside. I find myself, as he forces himself, trembling, over the threshold, thinking about Sirius. He, I have come to realise, is a better man than me. Sirius hated Kreacher, hates him still, presumably, but would never, never have handed him over to The Dark Lord to be used for who knows what purpose. In a moment of madness, I thought of trying to contact him, to ask for help. But I would be signing his death warrant. I would risk exposing his location to the Death Eaters, and my plan to desert Voldemort. Who knows, perhaps he would kill me. He is as devoted to his side of the war as I thought I was to mine, and I swore that I would kill him, my own brother, if I had to.

It occurs to me for the first time, as we climb into the boat, that I will never speak to him again. I had thought about the fact that I will not speak to my parents again, and said goodbye to them casually this morning, so that they would not be suspicious. But not Sirius. I told him, forever ago, that I would never speak to him again, but did not truly mean it. I assumed that, at least, my vow would be tested. But I have not seen him since that day, have not heard any news of him. I am not sure that he is alive. My chest constricts at the thought that Sirius may have predeceased me. If he has, then my demise will be the end of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. The idea saddens me. It would not sadden him.

I can see shapes moving in the water. I told Kreacher that he did not have to tell me what dwelt within the lake, because it upset him so to speak of them. I had pondered what the things might be, that reduced cantankerous, unruffleable Kreacher to such a state of terror, but I realise, when I see one of them clearly, that the truth is too horrible to have occurred to me. I open my mouth to tell Kreacher to turn the boat around, that I have changed my mind, and then I close it. I am a coward. I am weak. But I am going to do this.

I see the basin, just as Kreacher told it. I consider, briefly, the possibility that I could get Kreacher to drink it. He would be dragged below the surface of the water by the Inferi, but he, with his secret, house-elf’s magic, could apparate away. Both of us could get out alive. And I would be dead in a week, having forced Kreacher through the ordeal again. I am going to die, and I choose to die protecting Kreacher, saving him from what Voldemort put him through. A final act of defiance to one who views House Elves as worthless. Before I drink, I kneel before him to instruct him. Make me drink the potion, make sure I drink all of it. Take the locket away. Leave the replica in its place. Leave me behind. Destroy it. You must destroy it.

“Kreacher will not leave Master Regulus.”

He will, because House Elves do not have the power to defy their masters, but still I fix his gaze with mine and beg him.

“Please, Kreacher.”

His huge eyes fill with tears, and he nods. Handing him the locket, I stand on shaking legs and reach for the basin.

It is easier than I thought it would be. I thought that the Dark Lord had to hold Kreacher down and force it down his throat. Kreacher is stronger than he looks, but not strong enough to fight off a grown man determined to live. Even as the potion burns my throat, I feel my mind becoming… unfocused. Woolly. When Kreacher bids me drink again, tells me that I will feel better, I do not have to make myself do it, I do it willingly.

I am thirstier than I have ever been in my life. Maddened by it, I drain the goblet of potion again and again, until none is left. I look at the water, remember what I saw within it, and huddle against the stone pedestal. I will not drink it, I will not. A tiny spark of hope flares in my chest. Perhaps I can resist the potion’s madness of thirst. Perhaps I can make it out of here alive.

Why would I think such a thing? I know what I am. I am not brave, I am not strong. I am weak, and foolish, and I begin to crawl towards the edge of the water. Kreacher wraps his long fingers around my arm.

“Master Regulus, come with-“

“No, Kreacher! Go! Take the locket and go, the way we came!”

“Master-”

“Go!”

Kreacher retreats, pulled back from me by a force greater than himself, as I reach the water’s edge. I reach out with cupped hands to gather water that I can drink, and see, through the ripples, something moving below the surface. As the foul taste of the water spreads across my tongue, a hand reaches up from below the surface, and I start away from it. As I begin to scramble up the island towards the basin, I feel the hand close around my ankle. Kicking it away, it releases me, but more of them are crawling out of the lake. They take hold of me by my arms and my legs and my hair, and for the first time I know what it is to be frozen with fear. Too frightened to even scream, I feel them drag me down to the water, and the last thing I see before the surface closes over my head is Kreacher, in the boat, returning to shore and watching me die.


End file.
